


Five Stages

by whizzingfizbee



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 16:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whizzingfizbee/pseuds/whizzingfizbee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what he likes about the library, Arthur thinks. Sure, there are freaks, but at least they stay out of your hair. At least they leave you alone. Nobody bothers you for long in the library. That’s some ironic foreshadowing there, if you couldn't tell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Stages

*******

**Five Stages:**

**A Psychological Analysis of the Birth and Subsequent Progression of a Relationship**

 

 

Introduction

 

Arthur’s favorite place to be is definitely the university library. It’s quiet and peaceful and, unlike pretty much everywhere else on campus, bereft of noisy, obnoxious students. It’s not that Arthur hates other students, really it isn’t. It’s just that he’s not here, racking up insane student loans that he may never be able to pay back, just so he can spend four years fluctuating between not-quite-sober and all-out-wasted and wind up with a meaningless piece of paper that says “diploma” at the top and considerably fewer brain cells than when he started.

So it’s not that Arthur hates college students; it’s just that he kind of sort of really does.

Arthur works four shifts a week at the library as a form of financial aid. He works, and the school subtracts whatever they would be paying him from his tuition each semester. All in all it’s a pretty nice set-up. The school is government-funded so the wages are respectable, enough to almost entirely cover tuition. Plus, it’s not exactly a stressful job. Reshelf some books, show people how to use the computers, basic stuff. And he’s allowed to do homework when he’s not busy, which is helpful because Arthur takes 18 hours a semester, and he needs all the homework time he can get.

By far the best part is that Arthur genuinely likes the library. He’d probably be here, working or not, so he might as well be getting paid for it. And he doesn’t have to deal with annoying customers like he would at any other menial, minimum wage job that hires college kids.

Arthur isn’t exactly a people person (his roommate, Ariadne, might snort and call that the understatement of the century, but whatever). He may or may not have broken a kid’s nose junior year of high school for dropping his English textbook in a toilet. As it stands, it’s all just speculation. The point is that it’s in everyone’s best interest not to get Arthur frustrated.

“Excuse me,” a soft, mousy voice says, and Arthur snaps away from glaring at his unstarted statistics assignment.

It’s a girl, young, maybe a freshman, and she’s standing in front of the library help desk, eyes fixed on the floor like talking to Arthur is pretty much the scariest thing she can think of doing.

“Yes,” Arthur says back, gently so as not to scare her, “May I help you?”

“I’m looking for the...uh...the reference section?” the girl replies with a little rise at the end like she’s asking for Arthur’s approval.

“It’s upstairs and to the left,” Arthur says, gesturing at the staircase to the left of the desk and the sign that clearly reads “Reference and Non-Fiction” and then an arrow pointing up.

“Oh,” she starts, and her ears tinge red, and Arthur can’t help but feel bad for her because if she has this much trouble asking for directions in the library, she’s in for a rough few years, “Th-thanks.”

And then she’s gone, scuffling up the stairs with surprising speed considering the fact that her backpack is almost as big as she is. Arthur shifts his attention back to his still blank homework sheet. This is what he likes about the library, he thinks. Sure, there are freaks, but at least they stay out of your hair. At least they leave you alone. Nobody bothers you for long in the library.

That’s some ironic foreshadowing there, if you couldn’t tell.

***

 

For Arthur, the trouble starts the first day of his senior year. As is common on any given weekday, Arthur’s sitting behind the check-out desk, trying to muddle through a chapter on fixed intelligence theory. Arthur really does like being a psychology major, but some days, it just sucks.

He’s nursing a headache from hell already, and the words on the page are starting to blur and move and dance the can-can in front of his too-tired eyes. He’d spent all morning shelving books and then arranging some silly pyramid display of auto-biographical literature that simply did not want to stay put. It had fallen three times during the hour Arthur spent setting it up, toppling with a thunderous noise that sounded like...

*CRRRAAASHHHH*

...pretty much exactly like that.

Arthur’s head shoots up and his eyes narrow in on the group of boys with all the speed and menace of a hawk closing in on its prey. He recognizes them immediately. They came in about an hour ago, five or so guys sprawled out on one of the large circular tables, flipping through books and making far too much noise for Arthur’s taste. Only determination to finish his reading had kept Arthur from marching over and throwing the lot of them out.

Now they’re standing around the strewn remains of Arthur’s display. Or rather four of them are standing, laughing raucously at the fifth who is sitting waist deep in a pool of books, looking a bit confused. Arthur stands up and snaps his textbook shut.

As soon as they see Arthur approaching, the four laughing guys shoot pitying glances at their friend and bolt out the door. Thus abandoned, the fifth one rallies to pull himself up and dart off before Arthur can get there, but he’s just a touch too slow.

“What happened over here?” Arthur asks with practiced iciness and reproach.

“Well, you see,” the man starts, looking sheepish, and Arthur’s a bit caught off guard by the soft British accent, “We were just passing by and...Robby, he pushed me a bit, er, right into your...whatever this was. Sorry?”

The man fixes Arthur with an expression that’s half guilty, half playful. Arthur looks him up and down. Short, messy hair, a day and a half’s stubble, school t-shirt, and ratty jeans. He seems harmless enough. Probably a legitimate accident and not some pre-meditated terrorist attack on the library then.

“Look, I’ll help you straighten up, alright?” the man says, already starting to pile up books on the display table.

Arthur holds in a grumpy sigh. The guy’s being nice enough to not deserve his full wrath.

The two tidy up in silence for a couple minutes. It’s not until Arthur gets down on his knees to pick up the last few books that the other man stops moving. Arthur glances up over his shoulder only to find the man staring, quite shamelessly, at Arthur’s ass.

He catches Arthur’s eye and offers him a roguish wink, “Lovely view. What was your name again?”

Frustration has been building up in Arthur all day. His headache pulses back to life right behind his left eye, and he’s overcome with the sudden, incredibly strong urge to slam this jerk into the shelf of audio books directly behind them.

Instead Arthur stands up, face a mask of dignified indifference except for his mouth, which is pulled into a tight, angry line.

“Out,” he says; one word, quiet and calm and utterly terrifying.

The man opens his mouth, looks for a second like he might argue or make some other lewd remark. Apparently he thinks better of it though because he shrugs and turns, walking out of the library with an irritating spring in his step.

Arthur slams his fist (when had he clenched his hands so tight?) down hard on the display table. With a loud crash, all of the reset books tumble back to the floor. For the first time ever, Arthur leaves the library early.

***

 

Arthur signed up for an art history class, not because he’s particularly fond of the renaissance world view, but because he’d needed a fine arts elective and all the film studies classes were already full. Even so, he’s expecting it to be mildly interesting at best and an extended naptime at worst.

He shows up to the first class on Tuesday morning right as the clock shifts to read 9:00. He’d been up until a ridiculous hour the previous night finishing his psychology reading and complaining to Ariadne about the Library Predator, as Arthur has come to call him (Ariadne found the name quite amusing). He’d groggily hit the power button instead of snooze on his alarm clock that morning and had woken up fifteen minutes before class started, messy-haired and bleary-eyed and all the way across campus from the art building. Arthur sends out a silent thanks to the campus bus for actually showing up when he needed it for a change.

The class meets in a fairly large lecture hall, with stadium seating and a large screen and projector up front. Normally, Arthur likes to sit at the front of the room (yes, he’s that person), but the room’s already pretty full, so he slides into a seat in the second to last row and resolves to show up early on Thursday to snag a better spot.

Just as he’s pulling out his notebook, the professor sweeps into the room. She’s a tall willowy woman, with sharp yet charming features, and there’s a distinct French lilt to her words as she introduces herself as Dr. Mallorie Cobb. Arthur wonders faintly if she’s related to Dominic Cobb over in the dream psychology department who everyone describes as a complete nutcase.

Dr. Cobb is five minutes into her description of the course and its requirements when Arthur senses someone slip into the seat next to him. Arthur doesn’t pay any mind to the newcomer, too busy skimming over the grading system and paper guidelines. But out of nowhere there’s a low voice whispering in his ear in a familiar and somehow inherently annoying British accent.

“We have got to stop meeting up like this. I’m starting to think it’s destiny.”

Arthur’s head whips around fast enough that he feels a faint twinge in his neck. It’s forgotten immediately, however, as he comes face to face with none other than the Library Predator, who’s smirking at Arthur in a self-satisfied manner, as though he’s just been told the final exam is optional.

“I’m Eames, by the way,” he says, smooth and cocksure, “Never did catch your name, though.”

Too late Arthur sees the Predator’s eyes sweep over his open notebook, and Arthur scrambles to hide his name scrawled into the top right corner of the page. The Predator’s gaze flicks forward to watch Dr. Cobb for a minute, and Arthur thinks maybe he got lucky and his anonymity is spared.

“So...Arthur,” and just about here is where Arthur knows he’s well and truly screwed, “I’ve never been good at Art. Or history, for that matter. Perhaps we should consider being study buddies.”

The less-than-subtle leer Eames shoots his way confirms Arthur’s suspicion that his intentions are not even remotely academically oriented. Arthur doesn’t deign him with a response and consoles himself with the knowledge that, come Thursday, he’ll be situated safely in the first row and he’ll never have to look at the Predator’s smug face ever again.

“One final thing before we begin the first lesson,” Dr. Cobb says, holding up a sheet of paper on a clipboard and a pen, “I’m passing around a seating chart. Please put your name in the space where you are sitting today. I’ll be using this chart to take attendance, so only switch seats if you don’t mind being marked absent.”

As if he can telepathically read Arthur’s misery, the Predator fixes him with a victorious grin. Arthur somehow resists the urge to bang his head soundly on his desk. It’s going to be an agonizingly long semester.

 

1.) Denial

 

“Don’t you think you’re being just a tad overdramatic, Arthur?” Ariadne asks, head hidden behind the fridge door as she looks for something to snack on.

“You weren’t there,” Arthur replies in what he will never admit sounds suspiciously like a whine, “You don’t know what he’s like.”

Ariadne pulls back with a string cheese and a carton of orange juice in her hand. She looks disparagingly over at Arthur, who, upon arriving back from art class, had flung himself face down across the couch and refused to move.

“I think you’re jumping to conclusions,” Ariadne says, pouring juice into a disposable paper cup, “I mean you can’t possibly know him very well. You’ve only had one class with him.”

“That’s all I needed to figure out that he’s a crazed sexual deviant!”

“Oh shut up,” Ariadne snorts, bringing her snack into the living area and flopping down on the neon green beanbag chair next to the coffee table, “You’re being ridiculous.”

At this, Arthur shoots up from his previous spot with an affronted cry, as though Ariadne had just insulted his mother or challenged him to a duel.

“He spent the entire class knocking my pencil off the side of the desk so I’d have to bend over to pick it up.”

Ariadne rolls her eyes, “Okay so he’s a third grade boy. That doesn’t mean he’s a sexual deviant...”

“He stole my agenda without me noticing and drew a horribly crude stick figure drawing of two people fucking, then labeled them ‘Arthur’ and ‘Attractive British Exchange Student’.”

Ariadne fights hard to repress her chuckle, but it’s difficult. Partly because of Arthur’s hilariously disproportionate reaction, and partly because of the imprint of the ivy-printed sofa upholstery fabric that’s now ingrained on his forehead.

“You could always try telling him to leave you alone,” Ariadne suggests in an attempt to sound helpful.

Arthur scoffs like that is the stupidest piece of advice he’s ever heard.

“First of all, there’s no way that would get him to back down. Second of all, that would be admitting that I’m bothered by his incorrigible behavior.”

“Which you obviously aren’t” Ariadne offers sarcastically.

Arthur frowns, “But if I let him know I’m bothered, he’ll only get worse.”

“So what are you going to do?” Ariadne asks, “Agree to sleep with him so he’ll shut up?”

Arthur gives her a very sharp “not-amused” face.

“I’m just going to ignore him,” he says, in a collected manner that is completely ruined by the leaf-design etched across his hairline, “If I don’t respond, he’ll get bored and lay off."

“You’re the psychology major,” Ariadne sighs disbelievingly.

Arthur glares in return. Ariadne considers telling him about the pillow lines, but ultimately decides against it. She still hasn’t forgiven him for drinking the last of the non-decaf coffee.

***

 

Arthur’s plan to ignore the Library Predator works perfectly for the first ten minutes of class on Thursday, but that’s mostly due to the fact that Eames shows up ten minutes late.

“Miss me?” he whispers directly into Arthur’s ear as he drops into his seat.

Arthur quashes down the urge to curl his lip in disgust. Instead he fixes his eyes firmly on the projected image of the DaVinci painting Dr. Cobb is discussing. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Eames grin and roll his eyes in a fond sort of way. It somehow makes Arthur even angrier than the invasion of personal space.

Next Tuesday it’s raining down buckets of lukewarm water. Arthur’s umbrella is 8 years old and a few of the spokes are bent at awkward angles so that it won’t even open all the way. By the time he makes it so class, his entire left side is speckled with damp spots and his hair is twisting into frizzy curls thanks to the humidity.

Eames somehow manages to arrive on time, but clearly he’d made the trip to the art building sans umbrella. His short hair is dripping rivulets down the back of his neck. His white baseball t-shirt has become alarmingly see-through and it’s plastered to the ridges of his abs in a wholly indecent fashion.

“Hey,” he says to Arthur as he throws away the ruined newspaper he must have been using as a makeshift umbrella.

Arthur finds himself to be, embarrassingly enough, at a complete loss for words. He’s saved only by the fact that Eames chooses that exact moment to shake his head like a dog coming in from a storm, sprinkling Arthur’s immaculate notes with a smattering of raindrops. Arthur’s rage and annoyance rushes back just in time to offer Eames a scathing look.

“Oops,” Eames says, shrugging his shoulders and flashing Arthur a shameless grin.

With a crack, Arthur’s pen snaps in his tightly clenched fist, spilling black ink all over his already wet notes.

***

 

“I can’t believe that actually happened to you,” Ariadne wheezes out between bouts of uproarious laughter as Arthur describes his day over a dinner of Chinese takeout.

Arthur thinks he’d be laughing too if this were happening to anyone but himself. Mostly he feels like the butt of some cosmically engineered joke.

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up,” he mutters darkly under his breath.

“Honestly I don’t know what your problem is,” Ariadne says as she laughs so hard her eyes start to water, “He’s hot and British. I say go for it.”

Arthur doesn’t have the patience to extol to Ariadne all the reasons why that is a terrible idea, so he stalks off to his bedroom and may or may not spend the rest of the evening sulking.

***

 

As if seeing him in class isn’t bad enough, Eames also develops a sudden fondness for the library. In all the three years Arthur has worked there, he never once saw Eames before the infamous book pyramid fiasco. Now it seems like Eames comes in nearly every day. Usually he sits quietly at a table and studies, but Arthur can feel eyes following him around as he shelves books.

Wednesday afternoon Arthur looks up from a stack of catalogue cards to find Eames standing at the check-out counter with a book in his hand and what can only be described as a shit eating grin on his face.

“I’m ready to check-out,” he says, clearly amused beyond reason that Arthur is now required to interact with him.

Arthur briefly considers how much trouble he would get into if he refused to help a student, before deciding regretfully that it’s too much to risk.

“Can I see your student id?” he asks in a flat, bored monotone, scanning Eames’ book (The Collected Plays of Oscar Wilde) and stamping a return date on the inside cover.

Eames hands over his id, which Arthur also scans with a quick glance at the picture in the upper right corner (it looks to be from freshman year, and Eames has a shaved head and a goatee).

“It’s due back in two weeks,” Arthur says, handing back the book and the id card.

Eames looks like he’s about to say something else, no doubt inappropriate and pertaining to some part of Arthur’s anatomy, but just then a blonde girl joins the queue with a stack of encyclopedias and Eames wisely chooses to leave.

***

 

By Thursday morning, Arthur’s patience and resolve are running dangerously thin. There’s only so much harassment and humiliation (courtesy of Ariadne) that a human being can reasonably be expected to handle before he hits his breaking point, and Arthur is fast approaching his. Considering the circumstances, he thinks he’s done rather well.

Arthur ignores Eames when he comes into the classroom. He ignores Eames when he drapes a well-muscled arm over Arthur’s shoulder and blows at the back of his ear. He ignores Eames when he repeatedly nudges Arthur’s foot under the desk while Dr. Cobb lectures about vanishing points.

And then suddenly, just as Eames finishes whispering in his ear about how fit Arthur looked reaching to the top of the bookshelf, Arthur can tolerate Eames no longer.

“I’m trying to ignore you,” Arthur says in a low, deadly hiss.

A ridiculously triumphant expression passes over Eames’ face, and in that instant Arthur knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s doomed.

“Well,” Eames replies smoothly, as he somehow leans in even closer, “I guess it’s a good thing I’m impossible to ignore.”

Arthur wishes it weren’t true.

 

2.) Anger

 

It somehow comes to Arthur’s attention over the next several weeks that he’s been acting a bit more standoffish than usual. And understandably so, he thinks 

It starts with Eames, as, it seems, does everything these days.

Having completely failed the ignoring phase of the plan, Arthur moves on to the hitherto unknown second phase, which turns out to be unfounded and disproportionate anger.

Eames asks to borrow a pen. Arthur nails him with it between the eyes.

Eames hums while he takes notes. Arthur kicks him hard in the shin.

Eames politely asks what page the homework is on. Arthur politely tells him to go fuck himself (something in Eames’ tone was asking for it, he swears).

Arthur isn’t sure whether he feels mollified or just even more irritated by the fact that Eames seems to view these random acts of violence as endearing bonding moments that prove Arthur is slowly warming up to him (they aren’t and he isn’t). There’s something undeniably infuriating about the way Eames’ lips slide upward into a smirk as Arthur rattles off insult after insult (not that Arthur fixates on Eames’ lips, but they’re kind of noticeable). It’s equal parts warm and condescending, like Eames knows something Arthur doesn’t and finds his ignorance adorable.

Even the goddamn Dalai Lama would be at his wit’s end, let alone poor, short-tempered, victimized Arthur.

Maybe that’s why Arthur doesn’t initially notice when his temporary, Eames-related bad mood shifts into a more general, 24/7 bad mood. Thankfully Ariadne is kind enough to point it out with ample tact and consideration.

“You’ve been acting like a bitch lately.”

Arthur looks up from glaring at his bowl of cereal to see Ariadne standing in the entryway of their apartment’s tiny kitchenette, hair something of a tangled mess, with a hand on her hip and an unpleasant grimace on her face. Now granted Ariadne’s never exactly a flawless angel in the morning, but Arthur can sense that this is more than the usual ‘I got 5 hours of sleep and now I have awful morning breath’ situation.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asks.

Ariadne blinks slowly at him as though her sleep-muddled brain is slogging through the difficult process of forming words and sentences.

“It means,” she says, voice thick and heavy, “that you’ve been acting like a bitch lately.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, “Thanks for elaborating there, Ariadne. It’s all so much clearer now.”

Ariadne’s eyes narrow into what would be a glare if there were any actual strength behind it. As is it’s more of a slightly perturbed squint.

“There,” she says, pointing at Arthur’s forehead, “You’re doing it right now. Bitch bitch bitch bitch bitch. That’s all you’ve done for the last week.”

“I have not been bitchy,” Arthur huffs in response.

“Yes you have,” Ariadne insists as she shuffles over to the coffee pot on the counter, “I can’t so much as breathe anymore without you biting my head off.”

Arthur purses his lips defiantly as Ariadne fixes herself a cup of coffee and tries to evaluate his recent behavior for any signs of snippiness. Honestly he can’t think of much. Okay maybe he’d been a bit overzealous in his discussion (Ariadne referred to it as an “angry rant”) about leaving shoes in the hallway. And perhaps Ariadne’s music hadn’t been that loud when he’d shouted at her to “turn it the fuck down I’m trying to study.” And yeah eating the last of the chocolates her mom had sent her from France was probably uncalled for.

“Perhaps I haven’t been in the best of moods,” Arthur concedes, stirring his bowl of soggy corn flakes apathetically.

Ariadne snorts around a bite of her strawberry poptart.

“I guess Eames has just really been getting to me.”

“That’s not an excuse to take it out on me, Arthur,” Ariadne says pointedly.

Arthur shrugs his shoulders sheepishly, “Sorry.”

If the way Ariadne scowls at him is any indication, Arthur doesn’t think she accepts the apology.

“Just keep your inner bitch in check,” she says as Arthur gets up from the table and dumps his nearly full bowl of cereal down the sink, “If I have to hear another lecture about proper shoe organization, I’m looking for a new roommate.”

Arthur leaves for class that morning feeling like shit, which is unfair because it’s Wednesday and he’s only supposed to feel this pissed off after an hour with Eames.

***

 

“Have I been acting weird lately?” Arthur randomly asks his O-chem lab partner in the middle of their assigned experiment.

Yusuf shoots up from his position bent over the data sheet, wide-eyed and startled.

“Uh no,” he says waving his hand dismissively, “That is, I mean, not really.”

Arthur arches his eyebrow at Yusuf’s bumbling.

“Okay so you’ve been a little....difficult,” Yusuf admits and braces himself like he’s expecting some kind of violent reaction.

Arthur frowns.

“Difficult?”

“You know, difficult. Difficult as in you crumpled up the lab report that I spent two hours typing and threw it in the garbage because I did it in Arial.”

Arthur’s frown deepens.

“Not that I blame you,” Yusuf says hurriedly, as if sensing Arthur’s displeasure, “I’m sure you’re just stressed or something.”

“Yeah,” Arthur replies, “I am.”

Yusuf spends the rest of the class period walking on eggshells, which Arthur does feel a little bad about, but not enough to actually apologize. Arial is a stupid font and deserves exactly what he’d given it.

***

 

On top of the fact that he’s got a charming, British stalker and all of his friends hate him, Arthur finds out in his Advanced Psychology class that the topic for his senior thesis is due by the end of the semester.

“This paper is a graduation requirement for the Psychology Department, and it will be a large factor in determining where you will be admitted for graduate school,” Dr. Miles explains to the class, “Please do not treat it lightly.”

Internally Arthur lets out a loud groan of frustration. He hasn’t even had time to consider a topic for his senior thesis, let alone refine one into a subject worthy of a fifty page paper. Arthur can barely focus on the day’s lesson through his all-encompassing sense of panic, and on his way out the door Dr. Miles pulls him aside.

“Are you alright, Arthur?” Dr. Miles asks, “You seemed a bit unfocused today.”

Arthur nods despite the unsettled feeling in his chest, “I’m fine. The senior thesis thing just kind of snuck up on me. I knew it was coming, but I guess I just forgot to think about it.”

Dr. Miles gives him an appraising look before smiling fondly.

“I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully, Arthur. You’re one of the department’s top students.”

Even though Arthur knows he should feel honored by the compliment, and even though he knows that he’ll perform more than adequately on his paper, all he can manage to feel is sick to his stomach.

***

 

Arthur shows up to his shift at the library only through sheer will power. Every instinct in his body is telling him to go straight home, lock himself in his room, and sleep until the weekend. But he can’t call out of work without a legitimate excuse, and for some reason he doubts the university clinic will write him a note for being fed up with life. So he trudges into work despite his inclinations to run in the opposite direction.

Something about his mood must radiate outward, because the library-goers seem to go out of their way to avoid interacting with him, which suits Arthur just fine because he wants to be left alone anyway. He spends the first hour of his shift flipping through a psychology textbook in search of a possible thesis topic.

Really, Arthur should have been expecting Eames to show up. He’d had an almost constant presence there for the better part of a month. But somehow Arthur finds himself caught completely off guard when Eames appears in front of him, rapping his knuckles on the checkout counter like some horrible cherry on top of what is possibly the worst day of Arthur’s young life.

And honestly, Eames has said much worse things over the past few weeks. But with the day Arthur’s been having, something feral and cruel inside him seems to snap loose.

“So,” Eames begins completely oblivious to the fact that Arthur is literally seconds away from exploding, “I was thinking we could head out to the lake this weekend together. I’m sure you’d look delightful in a pair of swim trunks. I bet we could even...”

But Eames doesn’t get a chance to finish because suddenly Arthur is leaping up and hurling his textbook aside and getting right up into Eames’ face, mouth twisted into a snarl.

“Look,” Arthur says, low but terrifying enough to capture Eames’ undivided attention, “I don’t like you. I’m not going to the lake or the movies or anywhere on this whole fucking planet with you. I don’t want anything to do with you. Honestly it would make me incredibly happy if you would just turn around, walk out the door, and leave me the hell alone for the rest of the semester.”

Arthur’s breathing heavily by the time he finishes his tirade, and Eames is looking at him in wide-eyed shock, as though nothing in the world could have prepared him for Arthur’s outburst. Arthur can see him visibly school his expression into one of casual indifference, though the tightness around the mouth and eyes gives him away. Eames takes one then two steps backward, and Arthur feels the anger deflate inside him like a punctured balloon.

“I can see something’s put you in quite a state,” Eames says with a forced chuckle that rings hollowly in Arthur’s ears, “Guess I’ll just leave you to it then. Get back to me on that lake trip, yeah?”

And with that Eames spins on his heel and strides out of the library without a trace of his usual exuberance. It’s the absolute worst Arthur’s felt all day.

 

3.) Bargaining

 

“Are you sure you don’t want to come home with me for Thanksgiving break?” Ariadne asks for the third time in 24 hours.

Arthur chews furiously on a mouthful of Spaghetti-O’s and shakes his head no.

“C’mon,” Ariadne sighs exasperatedly, “That fight was like a whole month ago. I’m sorry for calling you a bitch. It was uncalled for. And you’ve been decidedly un-bitchy since then, so can we please just put it behind us.”

“It’s not that,” Arthur says after swallowing, “Like I said, that’s water under the bridge.”

“Then why do you insist on staying in the apartment alone for a week instead of coming back to my house and gorging on my mom’s delicious food?”

“I have to get this thesis topic worked out,” Arthur says, “Dr. Miles is starting to shoot me these expectant looks every time I leave the classroom. I’ve been thinking about it for over a month now and I haven’t gotten anywhere.

Ariadne scowls like she doesn’t agree with Arthur’s line of reasoning.

“I’ll be fine on my own,” Arthur assures her (since when did Ariadne start sounding like his mom?), “I’ll mostly just be in the library like usual.”

“You shouldn’t spend so much time there,” Ariadne says almost like an accusation, “You seem really tired and stressed out lately. I bet it’s because you spend all your free time cooped up in the library studying.”

“I like the library,” Arthur insists, “Plus it’s pretty much the only place I can escape from you-know-who.”

Ariadne suddenly perks up and she grins in a conspiratorial fashion.

“How is Eames?” she asks coyly, “I assume he’s still as dashing and persistent as ever.”

Arthur snorts and rolls his eyes.

“Dashing, no. Persistent, definitely,” Arthur says before shoveling another oversized spoonful of Spaghetti-O’s into his mouth.

“Have you even considered the possibility that he might leave you alone if you agree to one of his romantic advances?” Ariadne asks.

“Okay one, why are you so personally invested in the relationship between me and the sexual deviant who has been stalking me all semester, and two, if I agreed to the advances of aforementioned deviant, I would only have to spend more time with him. Private one-on-one time in which I would be stripped of my right to remove him from the library premises on charges of harassment.”

Arthur says this all around a mouthful of partially chewed food, and Ariadne manages to look amused, frustrated, and disgusted beyond belief all at once.

“I swear, Arthur,” she says, tone approaching a level of seriousness that surprises him, “If you could stop complaining and condescending for even one millisecond, you might be able to have some actual fun.”

Arthur chooses to ignore that statement in favor of the last bite of Spaghetti-O’s.

***

 

Ariadne goes home after her last class on the Friday before break. She leaves her parting words in the form of a bright pink sticky note on the fridge that Arthur finds when he gets back to the apartment. It reads:

_Try not to die of exhaustion while I’m gone. It’s too late in the year to look for a new roommate._

_-Ariadne_

Arthur would smile only he’s just come back from a grueling four hour study session. He’d typed up a lab report for O-chem (in Times New Roman, as it should be), churned out a mid-term essay on the Renaissance conception of the human form for Dr. Cobb, and remained completely unable to select a topic for his psychology thesis. It’s starting to become almost laughably pathetic. He’d spent at least five minutes seriously contemplating his job prospects in the fast food industry after failing to hand in his paper and being forced to drop out.

The sticky note gets tossed in the trash.

The weekend passes in a blur of psychology journals and internet searches (Arthur even stoops to browsing around Wikipedia, much to his own shame). He starts several thesis proposals; one on dream interpretation, another on the application of game theory to political decision making, and a third on the ability of the human brain to produce low level ESP. None of them feel right, and, consequently, none of them make it past the first paragraph.

Arthur’s Monday afternoon shift at the library is something of a mixed blessing. On the one hand, simply being in the library is enough to remind of his looming deadline, but on the other, work gives Arthur an excuse to do something besides study. For the first time in recorded history, Arthur doesn’t so much as touch a textbook during his shift.

Instead he reshelves all of the books in the Return bin. Then he sends out a mass email to all the students whose books are overdue. Then he cleans up the hard drives on all the library’s computers. Then he realizes he’s two hours into a five hour shift and there’s nothing left to do.

By hour three, Arthur’s so bored he can’t even act upset when Eames saunters in through the sliding glass doors. A distraction is a distraction, even if it’s a pest and dressed in a hideous blue Hawaiian shirt.

Eames pretends to peruse the mystery/thriller section for a minute or two, all the while slowly meandering in Arthur’s direction.

“You might as well come on over here,” Arthur sighs impatiently, “We both know what your final destination is.”

Eames flashes a smug grin and shuffles up to the check out desk, hands stuffed into the pockets of his khaki cargo pants.

“I didn’t realize you were so eager to see me,” he says in a tone that is entirely too proud for Arthur’s liking.

“Yes well the more you mess around with the books, the more work I have to do straightening them all out. Besides, I’m feeling unusually charitable today.”

“What you mean,” Eames says, leaning forward to rest his elbows and forearms on the counter, “Is everyone’s away on break so there’s nothing to do, and you’re bored.”

Arthur doesn’t bother denying it. Not studying has put him in a rather good mood.

“If you’re that bored, I know of a few things we could do to pass the time,” Eames says, shooting him a salacious wink.

“You just don’t know when to quit do you?” Arthur asks with a slight frown.

Eames shrugs as though he hears this all the time. “I have no intention of quitting until I achieve my goal.”

“And that goal is...?” Arthur asks, already dreading the answer.

“The politically correct answer is until you agree to go out with me.”

“And the uncensored one?”

Eames’ only response is a filthy smirk, but it gets the meaning across better than words ever could. Several moments pass in silence with Eames picking dirt out from under his fingernails and Arthur musing to himself.

“So what you’re saying,” Arthur begins, pronouncing each word slowly and carefully, “is that the only way to get you to stop is to agree to your demands.”

Eames nods and hmms noncommittally.

Arthur thinks for a second longer, then says, “Alright.”

Eames snaps out of his reverie, eyebrows rising high on his forehead and mouth opened into a surprised ‘O’.

“You messing with me?” he asks incredulously.

Arthur’s deadpan look is all the answer he receives.

“Finally wore you down, did I?” Eames says, running his tongue over his bottom lip in a gesture that’s half arrogant and half nervous.

“Think what you like,” Arthur replies in a bored drawl, “Like you said, I’m bored and feeling nice.”

Eames makes an abortive hand movement that might have been a partially formed fist pump. His smile is surprisingly genuine and free from the usual cocky attitude. All in all he looks positively gleeful, and it’s that revelation that startles Arthur and makes him continue.

“Just one date. One date and then you have to leave me alone. No talking in class. No coming into the library to mess with me. No explicit cartoons. No nothing. You will leave me in complete peace.”

The look on Eames’ face goes from jubilant to crestfallen in the blink of an eye.

“That’s not fair,” he protests, “I can’t even talk to you?”

Arthur offers him a reproachful look.

“I’m just following your stipulations,” he says icily, “The only way you’ll stop is if I go out with you. Well I want you to stop, and if this is the only way then so be it. But you have to swear that you’ll hold up your end and leave me alone afterward.”

“But I...I didn’t mean...I didn’t think you’d....”

Arthur interrupts Eames’ stuttering in a sharp tone of voice that leaves no room for argument, “This is the deal. One date in exchange for my privacy. Take it or leave it.”

Eames takes it.

***

 

When Eames texts him the date and time of their outing (Arthur refuses to refer to it as anything else), Arthur initially thinks it’s a joke. After all, who would possibly schedule a dinner outing (not date) on Thanksgiving when all the restaurants are closed? But then Arthur thinks Eames must have something planned because there’s no way he would go through all the trouble of pestering Arthur into going on a date (um...outing) with him only to blow it on some stupid prank.

What Arthur doesn’t account for is Eames’ startling level of ignorance.

Eames arrives promptly at 7:00pm. This catches Arthur off guard because Eames has only ever been on time to class once, and he suspects it was more of a fluke than anything else.

“You’re on time,” Arthur remarks dryly as he opens the door.

Eames has the audacity to feign affectation, raising the back of his palm to his forehead and crying, “Oh how your underestimation wounds me.”

Arthur steps outside with an annoyed huff and moves to lock the door behind him.

“Don’t I get to come in?” Eames asks.

“No,” is Arthur’s terse reply and Eames wisely lets the matter rest.

When they exit the apartment building, Eames turns left and starts to wander down the street. Everyone is at home with their families eating turkey and dressing, so the roads are mostly devoid of cars and people.

“So where are we going?” Arthur asks because he’s genuinely curious about the scheme he’s sure Eames has cooked up.

Eames only looks at him like he’s asked an incredibly stupid question and replies, “To a restaurant obviously. Where else would we go for dinner?”

Arthur stops in his tracks in the middle of the sidewalk. It takes Eames several more paces before he realizes he’s walking alone.

“What?” he asks confused.

“A restaurant?” Arthur repeats, “You’re taking me to a restaurant? Tonight?”

“Yes, darling, try to keep up.”

Arthur glares at Eames’ sarcastic tone, but it’s half-hearted because the primary thought rushing through Arthur’s brain is ‘I can’t believe this is really happening’.

“Eames,” Arthur says because the other man is starting to turn and continue down the street, “You do know it’s Thanksgiving, right?”

“Of course I do,” Eames replies, unperturbed, “I’m not an idiot.”

“Then you know that all restaurants are closed on Thanksgiving, right?”

From the panicked look on Eames’ face the answer is a resounding no.

“God damnit!” Eames curses.

And really the only thing Arthur can do is laugh.

They’re still bickering good naturedly about it (bickering meaning Arthur keeps loudly mocking Eames’ mistake and Eames insists he meant for all this to happen) when they arrive at Eames’ apartment building, which will be serving as their makeshift restaurant in light of Eames’ oversight (“intentional inobservance of fact, darling”).

Once Eames manages to open the worn out brass lock and fling the door back on its squeaky hinges, he immediately hurries off into the kitchen. Arthur makes a move to follow him, but Eames presses his palm against Arthur’s chest and won’t let him move forward.

“I don’t think so,” Eames purrs, “You just rest your pretty little bum on the sofa while I cook. It won’t be too long.”

And with that Eames retreats into the kitchenette, leaving Arthur alone to wander about the living room. The first thing Arthur notices is that it’s (unsurprisingly) a complete wreck. There are books and magazines strewn across the top of the laminate wood coffee table. Beneath the television is a chaotic, disorganized pile of DVDs without cases. There’s a suspicious stain in the corner next to what Arthur thinks might be a marijuana plant. All in all it’s pretty damn close to what Arthur expected.

On the side table next to the sofa Arthur catches sight of several framed photos. The first is of a young woman, maybe twenty five, holding the hands of two small children, a boy and a girl. The three of them seem to be at an amusement park, and the boy is holding a puff of cotton candy out in the direction of the camera while the mother (clearly she’s the mother) tries to wipe mustard off the girl’s lower lip. The second picture is of a second young woman, this time maybe twenty-one or two, cradling a new born infant in her arms.

Arthur drinks in the sight of these photos with a kind of reckless abandonment. They must be Eames’ family (the smug grin on the little boy’s face is incredibly familiar). It’s strange, but Arthur’s never been able to associate Eames with something normal and caring like a family, even though logically he must have one. It’s obtuse and incongruous in way that isn’t entirely unpleasant.

“That’s my mum and sister. And my little nephew of course. They live back in England so I don’t really see them much.”

Arthur manages not to jump at Eames’ sudden appearance behind him, but only just barely. For a second Eames gazes almost wistfully at the pair of photos forever framed in time on his side table. Then he turns to Arthur and, with all his usual boisterous exuberance, announces that dinner is being served momentarily.

“Hope you like Spaghetti,” he says, guiding Arthur into the breakfast area with a light touch to his lower back.

Arthur chooses not to inform Eames of his penchant for Spaghetti-O’s.

The spaghetti turns out to be surprisingly delicious, not that Arthur will ever admit it.

“It’s passable,” he says in response to Eames’ needling.

“It’s brilliant,” Eames shoots back, slurping a particularly long noodle into his mouth and splashing tomato sauce across his chin.

Arthur’s eyes instinctually follow the path Eames’ tongue makes as it licks up the mess.

“It’s pretty good,” he concedes.

“No. It’s brilliant.”

Arthur rolls his eyes in an over exaggerated fashion and sighs, “You never give up on anything do you?”

“My spaghetti cooking skills are not a matter to be trifled with,” Eames replies seriously.

“Why not?”

“Because I like spaghetti. And when you like something you don’t give up on it.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow and he fixes Eames with a piercing stare.

“Is that why you won’t give up on me?”

Eames goes uncharacteristically silent, but Arthur notices that his cheeks flush to match the color of the spaghetti sauce.

After dinner, Eames frog-hops Arthur over to the sofa, pushing him down and flicking on the television before he can really put up a fight.

“What is this?” Eames screeches when the screen blinks on and he sees what’s playing.

Arthur glances briefly at the screen before refocusing on Eames’ horrified expression.

“That’s Mel Gibson as Hamlet,” Arthur says, and he continues before Eames can get a word in edgewise, “Don’t be so melodramatic. It’s a pretty good adaptation.”

“Good?” Eames repeats in a hollow voice as though he’s in deep shock, “Good? Arthur, did you really just say that? Good!? Somewhere out there Sir Laurence Olivier is rolling in his grave.”

“What did I just say about being melodramatic?” Arthur quips, snatching the remote out of Eames’ hand and ratcheting up the volume on the TV several levels.

“What are you doing? Arthur, why are you turning it up? This is a torture method isn’t it? You’re torturing me! I’ll never talk. Never!”

At this point in the increasingly frantic rant Arthur decides that the best course of action is to rap Eames smartly upside the head. Admittedly, it is very effective in getting him to shut up.

“Ow,” Eames groans quietly, massaging the spot of a soon-to-be lump on the crown of his head.

“You had it coming and you know it,” Arthur chides.

Eames can’t exactly disagree. They settle in to watch the movie, mostly because when Arthur had hit Eames, he’d used the remote to increase the impact force, thus snapping open the panel cover and sending AA batteries flying under the sofa and TV stand. They’re both too lazy to actually go searching for them.

As it turns out, it’s not so bad. Sure Mel Gibson isn’t an ideal version of Hamlet, but still, there’s something to be said for Glenn Close and Helena Bonham Carter. In the middle of the scene where Hamlet starts narrating to the skull of his court jester, Arthur catches movement out of the corner of his eye. It takes him several moments to realize the movements are Eames’ lips, mouthing along to each and every one of Hamlet’s lines.

“How do you know all that?” Arthur asks, for the first time unconcerned with the level of admiration ringing in his voice.

Eames shrugs as though it’s a simple feat to memorize and recite all the lines belonging to the Melancholy Dane. But Arthur’s having none of it.

“Really,” he presses, “How do you know the lines?”

“I did the play in high school,” Eames finally admits.

Arthur arches an eyebrow in surprise, “You were in drama? I never would have guessed that.”

Eames maybe blushes (it’s hard to tell in the flickering light of the television screen), but he certainly continues to mime Hamlet’s lines until suddenly, at the start of Hamlet’s “to be or not to be” soliloquy, Eames scrambles up off the couch and leaps on top of the coffee table, sending magazine pages flying in every direction. He seizes a half empty tissue box and turns to look straight down at Arthur.

“To be or not to be,” he orates in a crisp, clean accent, “That is the question.”

Arthur watches as Eames goes through the monologue, his voice rising and falling in emotional crescendos, arms swinging around in wildly grand gestures. Arthur watches Eames as his face contorts into expression after expression, each subtly different and distinct from all the others. And Arthur watches as Eames slips on a cover of Playboy magazine and plummets into a crumpled heap on the apartment floor. And Arthur laughs and laughs and laughs until he cries.

And with a jolt he realizes that this is the happiest he’s been in a long time.

***

 

Eames walks Arthur home in companionable silence. They walk side by side, and since the sidewalks are narrow, their elbows keep knocking painfully together. Neither bothers to move. They arrive at Arthur’s apartment building, and Eames is grinning at him with this dopey, sappy look on his face, and suddenly Arthur doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. This isn’t the way this night was supposed to go. Arthur feels adrift at sea without so much as a scrap of driftwood to hold on to.

“So,” Eames says shaky and hopeful and how is Arthur even supposed to respond to that, “When do I get to take you out for a proper dinner, not that my spaghetti is anything less than a gourmet meal, mind you.”

Arthur’s panicked, and Arthur’s in shock, and all Arthur can think about is those framed photos and Eames wanting so hard for something that will never come.

“You don’t,” he makes himself say, whisper really because it barely breaks out over the sound of crickets chirping in the night.

At first Eames looks like he might laugh, like he thinks it’s some kind of joke. But then he catches on to the serious clench of Arthur’s jaw and the jovial aura he’s had all night evaporates into the darkness.

“You’re joking right?” he says, “We had fun tonight. I know you did so don’t try to deny it.”

“You remember the deal,” Arthur says, cold and emotionless, “One date and then you’d give up on me. Well the date’s over. Now I expect you to hold up your part of the bargain. Leave me alone.”

And with that Arthur turns on his heel and rushes back into the safety of his apartment, mostly (almost entirely) so he won’t have to see the hurt expression on Eames’ face.

 

4.) Depression

 

As it turns out, Eames does a miraculous job of holding up his part of the bargain. He no longer makes rude comments to Arthur. In fact, he no longer talks to him at all. He sweet-talked Dr. Cobb into letting him switch seats to the front of the room (“so I can better soak up your wisdom, of course”). He even stops coming to the library. Which Arthur is glad for. Which Arthur is not upset about. Which Arthur refuses to admit has been driving him crazy.

Because, for some unfathomable reason, Arthur is nowhere near as happy as he should be about finally driving Eames away. For all intents and purposes he should be ecstatic, should be refocused and ready for work, should be flying through his senior thesis with ease.

Instead he’s distracted during class, distracted during work, and distracted when he’s trying to write his proposal. Oh, and he’s also completely miserable.

Ariadne, nosy brat that she is, makes it her mission to find out why Arthur has been, in her words, “acting like the queen bitch in a colony of killer bitches.”

“I don’t get you,” she cries when she comes back from Thanksgiving break only to find Arthur moodier and more depressed than ever, “You say he drives you crazy and that you hate him, but you agree to go on a date with him. You have a wonderful time on said date, but you decide not to see him again. You decide not to see him again, but you spend all your time moping about it.”

“I’m a man of many contradictions,” Arthur mutters pathetically.

“No, Arthur,” Ariadne shouts, suddenly angry in a way that Arthur has never seen before (including the time when they were seven and Arthur knocked over her sand castle at the beach), “You’re an idiot. You miss Eames. Just call him already and apologize and tell him you’re lovesick over him. Trust me, he’ll be ecstatic.”

That has Arthur’s hackles raised in an instant.

“Just mind your own business,” he growls, “You always think you know everything about my life, but you don’t. I don’t like Eames. I don’t want Eames. What I want is for you to fuck off and leave me the hell alone."

Ariadne looks for a second like she might lunge at his jugular, but eventually she just shoots him a disappointed look and retreats into her room to unpack. Silence balloons up in her wake until it feels like thick cotton pressing against Arthur's nose and mouth.

Art History class becomes a complete disaster. A few weeks ago he would have been taking notes and paying attention and fending off various propositions from Eames. Now, however, he spends none of his time taking notes or paying attention and approximately all of it trying not to look like he’s looking at Eames when Eames turns around to look at him. Quite frankly, it's the most pathetic thing Arthur's done in recent memory.

It’s a phone call from his mother, however, that becomes the proverbial straw that breaks the camel’s back.

“Honey?” she says in her best ‘trying to wheedle information out of you’ voice, “Is everything alright?”

“Yes mom,” he sighs, “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know, dear.....Did your boyfriend break up with you?”

Arthur almost drops the phone in shock and embarrassment.

“Mom, why would you think that? I don’t even have a boyfriend.”

“Oh sweetie, you can’t fool me. I’m your mother. You sound exactly like an oversized moping puppy, which always means you’ve broken up with one of your boyfriends. Now tell momma all abou....”

Arthur hangs up the phone before his mom can even think to finish that line of questioning. He rubs the heel of his hand into his eye and drops his head down onto the faux wood desk with a plonk. There's something needling his brain right behind his left eye. Something he probably should have realized a long time ago.

Maybe it’s not everyone else’s problem after all. Maybe it’s his. And what the hell is he supposed to do if it is?

 

5.) Acceptance

 

Two days after this revelation and one week before the absolute final due date for thesis topics, Dr. Miles pulls Arthur aside after class.

“Arthur,” Dr. Miles says, sterner than he’s ever had to be with Arthur before, “I’m afraid that if you don’t give me your proposal by next week, you won’t be able to graduate. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

Arthur nods and apologizes profusely. The Eames situation has been pervading his every thought of late, and he’s spent way too much time obsessing when he should have been doing research.

So Arthur reports to the one and only place where he knows he’ll be able to concentrate and focus and do what needs to get done: the library. He commandeers a rounded table in the back right corner and stacks it high with as many psychology books as he can carry. 

Ironically enough, it’s in the very first textbook that he finds the answer he’s been looking for to both Eames and the senior thesis. Arthur’s just casually flipping through an intermediate psychological trauma textbook when he comes across it.

_The 5 Stages Grief_

_1.) Denial – subject refuses to acknowledge the loss_

_2.) Anger – subject feels a need to fight or cause arguments_

_3.) Bargaining – subject attempts to make deals with other party, sometimes God, to help solve problem_

_4.) Depression – subject experiences overwhelming feelings of loss and sadness_

_5.) Acceptance – subject accepts the reality of the situation_

As he finishes reading, the textbook slips from Arthur’s hands and onto the library floor in a whirl of paper. But Arthur doesn’t notice because he’s already running out the door and down the steps and across campus and straight to Eames’ apartment, sneakers pounding heavily on the concrete sidewalk all the way.

Something in that article had rung true for Arthur. Something about it made sense. The fact that you had to pass through all those shitty, miserable stages in order to reach the final, permanent stage of peace and happiness and homemade spaghetti and Mel Gibson movies. Actually, Arthur thinks, it’s embarassingly poetic.

And as Arthur rounds the block of Eames’ building, slips in past an old man leaving, jogs up the stairs by twos, and begins knocking frantically at Eames’ door, he only hopes that it isn’t too late; that the deadline hasn’t passed yet; that there’s still time.

Arthur knocks and knocks and the seconds drag on until he’s sure he’s been standing there for hours banging on the wooden frame waiting for Eames to open the door. Only then time speeds back up again and the door is opening and Eames is standing there, obviously just back from the gym, t-shirt stuck to his shoulders and back with sweat.

“Arthur?” Eames says in a bored tone that Arthur can see through like flimsy glass.

Arthur takes a deep breath, and then he tries to explain.

“I was flipping through my psych book and I found these stages, five there’s five stages, for grief, and they reminded me of you. Um not that you remind me of grief. Just the stages reminded me of you, of us actually, because, well, because I wanted to ignore you and hate you and forget about you, but actually that just made me feel angrier, so I bargained with you, and then I freaked out, but that just made me feel even worse and now...now...”

Arthur stops because he’s suddenly aware that everything he just said came out in a rush of incomprehensible wind, and Eames is looking at him like he’s grown a third head or something. This isn’t right, Arthur thinks, this isn’t supposed to go this way. Backtrack, Arthur, backtrack. Try again.

So Arthur takes a deep breath, scoops up all the courage he has, and then he says, “You know what Mr. Eames? I’m going to allow you to take me out on another date.”

To his credit, Eames tries very hard to look upset or detached, but Eames has always been terrible at hiding what he wants. Which is kind of perfect because apparently Arthur’s always been terrible at even knowing what he wants.

And even as a smile starts to break out across Eames’ face, he leans in and whispers low in Arthur’s ear, “And who says I want to? I do recall you insisting I ignore you for forever and eternity.”

And Arthur can’t help but grin too because he has the perfect comeback for this.

He presses even closer into Eames’ space and breathes across his lower lip, “Good thing I’m impossible to ignore.”

All the forced anger and stiffness falls off of Eames’ body like leaves from a tree and he’s wrapping an arm around Arthur’s waist and murmuring, “That you are, darling. That you are.”

And then their lips are meeting and touching and caressing and Arthur has this wild, illogical hope that it will never, ever end.

 

**Conclusion**

 

Arthur answers the doorbell wearing a sweater vest and a bright red, furred Santa hat, much to Eames’ immediate glee.

“You look very festive, pet,” he grins, sliding into the apartment carrying several grocery bags, but not without planting a big, wet kiss on Arthur’s lips as he passes.

Arthur shrugs and adjusts the jaunty angle of his hat, “It seemed appropriate.”

For the next twenty minutes, Eames prepares their Christmas casserole for the oven while Arthur sings along to Christmas songs playing on the radio in the living room. Eames particularly enjoys his rendition of Santa Baby. After Eames has slid the dish into the oven, set the timer, and wiped down the counters, he meanders into the living room, hoping to catch Arthur mid-ridiculous dance move.

Instead he finds Arthur fingering the page of a textbook, still bearing the little plastic library sticker with the catalogue number. Even from the doorway Eames can see it has a lot of scribbling on it.

“What are you up to?” Eames asks, coming up behind Arthur and sliding his arms around Arthur’s waist.

Arthur doesn’t say anything, but Eames does get a good look at the textbook page. At the top, in large black letters it says “5 Stages of Grief” only the word “Grief” has been crossed out and replaced with the word “Attraction.” Eames thinks back to that scrambling, wayward confession Arthur had made almost a month ago, and he seems to remember the word stages coming up several times. Eames can’t help but smirk into Arthur’s shoulder blade.

“What’s that?” Eames asks, even though he already has a decent idea.

Arthur turns in Eames’ arms and looks him dead in the eye as he says, “My senior thesis topic.

Eames chuckles and dots a few quick kisses across Arthur’s nose and cheeks.

“You are simply too adorable,” Eames croons, “Now go and check on the casserole, pet. 

Eames twists Arthur toward the kitchen door, and with a nudge or two and a pat on the bum, Arthur moves into the kitchen to make sure their dinner isn’t burning. Quickly, before Arthur gets back, Eames picks up a sharpie and crosses out the word “Attraction” and adds in something else.

“C’mon Eames,” Arthur calls, “I think it might be almost done. Then again, it could be completely raw. You know how I am in the kitchen. 

Eames takes one more soppy glance at the title scrawled across the top of the textbook page before joining Arthur in the kitchen.

_5 Stages of ~~Grief~~   ~~Attraction~~ Love._

 

**END**

**Author's Note:**

> This was a big bang entry for the Inception Land community when it was still running, so if you're getting freaky deja vu, you might have seen it there.


End file.
